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  INSIDE THE VICE RING!

  “I’ve wanted to talk to you about those pictures,” Miller said. “And about yourself, too, Gordon. In a way, since Eudora brought you in, it’s her job. But I have a feeling that she has a sort of personal yen for you. Not that I blame her, mind you. You’re young and good looking and, I’m sure, you can give her just what she needs. Still, while you’re having your fun, just remember a couple of things. First, you’re in this with us to stay, and make no mistakes about it. Your job is to get recruits for us — ”

  “Don’t get yourself excited over me,” I told him. “I’m in this to make money and not to change my mind.”

  “Fine. But don’t forget what I’m telling you, Gordon. You get out of line, just once, and I could have you nailed on those pictures. You’d get five years in the can.”

  Miller was a few inches shorter than I was, and I stared down at him. Putting it mildly, I hated his guts. He was a creep who helped spread filthy sex. But I had to tolerate him. At least, I had to tolerate him until I was ready to act.

  “In that case,” I said, “the girl would get it, too. What about her?”

  His look was stony. “Who cares …?”

  The

  PROMOTER

  ORRIE

  HITT

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  INSIDE THE VICE RING!

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  I’ll Call Every Monday

  Also Available

  Copyright

  1

  THE four-forty commuter train was crowded, hot and dirty. But by the time we left Seneca Falls, the last stop before New Rockford, there were only four and myself left in the smoking car.

  One of the girls, who looked like a fifty-dollar-a-week secretary, sat by herself near the middle of the car, fast asleep. Her legs were curled up beneath her on the cushion; her shoes lay on the floor.

  I had been watching the girl who slept, simply because she offered a means of avoiding the frank, youthful stares of the three girls who were on the opposite side of the car, a couple of seats down from where I sat. In particular, I had become somewhat embarrassed by the frankly speculative glances of the blonde one who was knitting on a bright red pull-over sweater.

  When I say that the girls had been staring at me, I don’t mean to convey the impression they had been trying to pick me up or anything like that. They appeared to be rather young, possibly recent high school graduates, and I assumed that they were merely having a little innocent fun at my expense.

  Almost any other time, I assure you, I would have been somewhat interested in the evident possibilities. I’m only twenty-six and, I hope, nothing less than one hundred percent male. However, at the moment, I was chiefly concerned about reaching New Rockford and quickly gathering material for an article on the Reverend Doctor Adam Call’s sports car. The completion of the article would bring immediate cash from Car Skill; about a hundred and fifty dollars which I would be able to pass along to my creditors.

  The train rocked, swinging around a sharp curve, and one of the girls squealed. Without thinking, I looked their way and found the soft eyes of the blonde upon my face. She smiled and I thought I saw a small dimple appear in the middle of her chin.

  We started down the mountain, the train running smoothly, and I turned to look out of the window. Through the late September night I could see the irregular cluster of the lights of the town down below. Actually, it wasn’t much of a town, only a hair over ten thousand. I had never been there before but the pattern of lights gave the impression of wide streets generously bordered by lawns.

  Reaching the bottom of the long grade, the train began to decrease speed. I took the suitcase and portable typewriter down from the rack overhead and started carrying them forward. The eyes of the blonde followed my progress with impish curiosity and I gave her a slight wink as I went past.

  I went out on the car platform. The lights in homes and factories slipped past and fell away into the night. The wind was cold, biting, and I suddenly wished that I’d worn my coat.

  The train came to a halt with a sudden, shattering jerk. The girls behind me, in the smoker, shouted with delight and came plunging noisily forward.

  I went down the steps and walked through the rolling steam clouds toward the station. Several taxi-drivers roamed the shadows beneath the American Railway Express sign, pleading for customers.

  I took the first cab in the line and while I waited for the driver to put my bags in the trunk the three girls passed, still laughing. They now seemed to be unaware of me, their youthful interests apparently having been transferred to a more interesting subject. I wondered, vaguely, if I would ever see the blonde again.

  Not being familiar with New Rockford, I asked the driver to take me to a good hotel, something near the middle of the town.

  “Looking for fun?” he inquired as we pulled away from the curb. “If you have something like that on your mind — ”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not looking for fun.”

  The driver shrugged and we rode the rest of the way to the hotel in silence.

  It was the start of the week-end, Friday, and since there weren’t any salesmen in town the clerk told me I could have a room on the third floor, with adjoining bath, and to the rear where it would be quiet. I told him that would be fine; I registered, and then asked if I could park my bags under the desk while I made a phone call and had something to eat.

  I found Dr. Call’s phone number and address in my wallet and crossed over to one of the glass booths beneath the stairs.

  “This is Bill Morgan,” I told the girl who answered. “I spoke with Dr. Call last week — I phoned him from the city — about doing an article on his sports car.”

  The girl said she was sorry but she didn’t know anything about it. However, she went on to say, the Reverend would return from church in about an hour and I could either call back or stop around and see him after that time. I thanked her for her trouble, said I would be out there about eight-thirty and hung up.

  I entered the dining room, which was rather crowded, and ordered a steak. Reluctantly, because I expected to visit the minister, I decided against having a drink. Since there wasn’t anything else to do while I waited for the steak, I got out my notebook and gave my creditors some serious attention.

  I should like to point out, right here and now, that I am not, as a general rule, the sort of fellow who goes into debt way over his head and shoulders. I like to pay cash for the things I buy. It is a good habit for a free lance writer to develop, since magazine checks are, at the very best, irregular and often uncertain. The amount of money I owed was still in excess of a thousand dollars.

  The next time the waitress came near my table I told her to bring me a double rye with just a touch of soda.

  After the drink arrived I returned to the notebook, wondering how I would handle the bills. Th
ere were still large amounts owing the doctor, hospital and undertaker. In addition to these was an old account with a beauty parlor, another with a dress shop and, ironically enough, the skis which had caused Sandy’s death had never been paid for.

  The waitress brought the steak and I pushed the notebook aside. Someday, perhaps before too long, I would be able to forget about the figures in it. After all, I had done quite well. At the start, in June, the total owed had been over three thousand.

  I ate the steak and the French fries and thought about it. I didn’t feel foolish or stupid, the way some of my friends would have me believe I was. It was true that Sandy hadn’t been my wife and, therefore, I wasn’t legally responsible for her debts. I knew that. But, had she lived, we would have been married and I felt because of this a moral obligation to do what any husband would have done. Besides, I still believed that I had been at least partially responsible for Sandy’s death. It had been my idea that we go up to New Hampshire for the Christmas holiday and it had been my idea that she learn to ski. A broken back, a smashed pelvis and, finally death, some six months later, had been the outcome of our trip.

  The waitress brought my coffee and I lingered over it, smoking and thinking.

  Sandy Culver had been very beautiful. Some critics had hailed her as the prettiest model in the city. Dark-haired, of medium height, she had possessed sparkling black eyes and a rich olive skin. She had been mentally alert, conversationally intelligent and — well, just wonderfully good. At least, she had been good for me, a knock-about free-lance writer who had worked a dozen different jobs from Iceland to Morocco. I’d settled down after I’d met Sandy, stopped my drinking and shifting around, and tried to make something of myself. The earnings from my writing had gone up to about eight thousand a year which, while not anything tremendous, was somewhat promising. We had made big plans for our life together …

  I got up from the table, left the waitress fifty cents, and went over to the desk to pay my check. The elderly woman who made change seemed friendly so I asked her how I could reach Dr. Call’s home on Startup Avenue. She told me it was three blocks down toward the river, on the right, and that I couldn’t miss it because it was a colonial-style white house next to a red church.

  It was getting much colder outside, but I decided to walk. The wind, blowing up from the river, pushed dry leaves along the street. Most of the stores were closed, their windows darkened. A half a dozen kids fooled around in front of the movie theatre, teasing the middle-aged gent at the ticket window. There was a soda fountain on the corner of Startup Avenue and when I passed it I could hear the juke box inside and smell the odors of hot chocolate and hot fudge.

  I had no trouble finding the house, since it was next to the church, in the middle of the block, and there was a light burning on the porch. I went up to the door and knocked.

  The door opened in a few moments but the hall was very dark and I couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman standing in there.

  “Bill Morgan,” I said. “I called just a few — ”

  Oh, yes. Please come in.”

  It was the same soft voice which had spoken to me on the phone. I stepped into the hall.

  “Please have a seat in the living room. Father will be here rather shortly.”

  I thanked her and entered a large room which was lighted by a single floor lamp. The room was square, with a high ceiling and huge bay-style windows. The furniture was old but there was plenty of it and it appeared comfortable.

  “I’ll call Daddy and tell him you’re here.”

  I turned around, started to point out that I wasn’t in any great hurry, but was unable to say anything.

  The girl had come into the room, near the light, and she stood there smiling at me.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Is there anything wrong?”

  “Oh, no. You remind me of someone I used to know. Very much.”

  My observation seemed to please her and she crossed to the phone with a smile upon her lips.

  Sandy had told me once, just before her death, that she was twenty-five. I guessed this girl to be not more than twenty. Her dark hair, smooth olive skin and haunting black eyes were more than enough to bring back the tragic memory of a lovely girl lying crushed and helpless upon a New Hampshire ski slope.

  “Daddy’ll be over as soon as he can,” she told me. “Please be seated.”

  I lowered my six-foot frame into one of the overstuffed chairs and watched her as she came across the room. The black dress, which had a rather high neckline, clung to her curves like a coat of plastic cloth. Her breasts were full and pointed and wide apart. While her little tummy was hardly anything at all, perhaps less than twenty inches around, her hips were fully developed and they matched the lush ripeness of her breasts.

  She sat down on the couch, crossed her legs carefully and smiled at me again.

  “You’re a writer, Mr. Morgan?”

  I told her that I tried to be but that there were times when I wasn’t quite sure. She seemed friendly, easy to talk to, and I asked her if she cared for a cigarette.

  “Oh, no. I’d catch it if he came in and caught me or if he thought I had been.”

  “Rugged.”

  “The life of a minister’s daughter isn’t for living,” she told me. “It’s for dying.”

  I went back to the chair and sat down. Her voice had lost some of its softness and I wondered if I detected a note of bitterness.

  “Nothing’s quite what it seems to be,” I told her.

  She agreed that it wasn’t and she wanted to know if I’d had a good trip out from the city. It had been fair, I said, just fair.

  “I’d love to work in the city,” she confided. “There simply isn’t anything around New Rockford for a young girl, not unless she becomes a nurse or works in one of the factories. But every time I talk to my father about leaving home he becomes furious. I sometimes wonder just what it will be like when I do leave.”

  “Perhaps you won’t.”

  She smiled brightly. “Oh, but I will, Mr. Morgan. I have a friend of mine, Elsa Lang, who is working as a model. We graduated from high school together last June. Elsa’s trying to get me a job in the office of the agency where she works. One of these lucky week-ends I’ll be going to the city. I just know I will.”

  The girl continued to talk about herself, explaining about her mother’s death five years before and how she, Judith, had inherited the responsibility of running the house for her father. She was an only child and, I thought, a rather unhappy one.

  “Judith means ‘praised’ in Hebrew,” she said. “I wish I could find some praise around here and then maybe things wouldn’t seem so bad.”

  Heavy footsteps sounded upon the porch.

  “Thanks for listening to my tale of woe, Mr. Morgan,” she said.

  Dr. Adam Call was a short, heavy-set man who barely reached my shoulders.

  “Sorry to be late,” he explained, puffing. “But we showed a movie, one of a series in our sex education class, and there were many questions afterward.” He smiled and sat down on the couch. “These youngsters, Mr. Morgan, ask many questions about sex.”

  “As many as they do about cars?” I wanted to know.

  He nodded, still smiling.

  “Yes, and even more.” Then, his eyes quite serious, “You know that car we built was quite a project, Mr. Morgan. At first, many of our church members weren’t in favor of it — there’s been so much adverse publicity in the papers about hot-rodders and that sort of thing. But now that we have built the car — it’s a beauty, I might say — the attitude of almost everybody in town has changed. Two other churches are starting similar projects — one is calling it a mechanic’s workshop — and even the police have told me that they are now willing to cooperate with a local auto club which will be organized by the young men and young women in the city.”

  “Well, it’s all a matter of education,” I told him. “Much of the criticism about hot-rods and custom cars is purely a
case of misunderstanding.”

  “I agree, Mr. Morgan. That is why I was so happy to receive your phone call. If the article will appear, as you say, in a national magazine, I think it will do much to improve relationships.”

  A few minutes later the girl went out and presently returned with a pot of tea and a plate of cookies. We sat around talking about hot-rods and drinking the tea.

  Dr. Call, I could tell, was a nut on the juvenile delinquency angle. He brought it up time and again, stressing the importance of having some project under way that would keep the kids off the streets.

  “Dad sometimes forgets there are girls in the church, too,” his daughter said. Her smile, leveled at her father, was meant to hurt. “Girls just don’t go for tying flies or boat-building or building cars. Those things are for boys, aren’t they, Mr. Morgan?”

  “Well — ”

  “Girls can take an interest in them, too,” Dr. Call said firmly. “There isn’t any reason why a girl can’t be just as interested as a boy in the construction of a beautiful car.”

  They argued, briefly, about that and I sat there watching them. I began to get the very definite feeling that the Reverend was chiefly interested in boys because he understood boys. I also received the impression that his daughter, being completely feminine, would never enjoy a truly close association with her father.

  I finally made arrangements to take photos of the car the next morning and to talk with some of the boys who had done much of the work.

  “I’d rather take the photos first,” I said. “Before there are too many people around.”

  The car, the Reverend said, was in one of the garages at the rear of the church.

  “I have a meeting in the morning and I won’t be available until after eleven,” he said. “But I’ll leave the key with Judith and she can let you in any time that’s convenient for you.”

  I said good night to the girl and the Reverend walked with me to the front door.

  “I’d like to have a long talk with you tomorrow,” he said to me. “Not about the car, in particular, but about something else. I won’t be at liberty to discuss it until after my meeting tomorrow morning, but I’m sure you will find it of more than passing interest to you.”